


An Unfinished List Of Some Things I've Been Meaning To Tell You

by snsk



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M, tatinof usa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7198463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Phil Lester.</p><p>(It's Dan's twenty-fifth birthday.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unfinished List Of Some Things I've Been Meaning To Tell You

You wake yourself up by shoving your wrist bone in my face. Once you make hard, sharp contact with my lower lip, your eyes flutter open. "Ow," you protest, rubbing at the back of your hand. "My wrist!"

I flop back onto the pillow and lie motionless for a bit, eyes watering from the pain. I gingerly press two fingers to my mouth. "Ow," I say. "There's blood. I win."

You hitch yourself up on an elbow, look interestedly at my fingers, instantly more awake. You use the pad of your thumb to check my lip. Then you move in, kiss it twice. There's not enough blood to stain your lips. "What an auspicious start to twenty-five," you say, and you giggle, and the day begins.

 

#1. I wake up earlier than you more days than I care to admit, and I watch you rest through half-opened lids, and am reassured. I fall back into an easier sleep.

 

We got our stuff packed last night, because I insisted it'd be easier in the morning. On the bed, you moaned about it and said "it's my birthday _eve,"_ but once I started throwing clothes into the laundry bag you put the remote down and settled yourself onto the bed with our luggage, started tidying up. As I knew you would.

It _is_ easier, in the morning, not that you'll admit I was right. We have an early flight. You bite off a chunk of the strawberry cupcake someone gave us last night, the one we weren't technically allowed to keep. "It's still in its packaging," I'd reasoned hopefully. You let me have my way. You stuffed it into your pocket so Robert wouldn't see.

 

#2. You let me have my way too much. You complain loudly about it, but you let me have my way. You spoil me. I love it. I should probably tell you to kick up more of a fuss. My eating habits are atrocious.

 

By six we're downstairs and checking out. Zainal, at Reception, tells us to have a safe flight and a fantastic day. You stare absently into the distance, still groggy, as he prints out our invoice. It's a humid morning, and your hair's already starting to rebel against the sleepy straightening job you rushed through this morning. "You have a lovely day too," I tell Zainal. You startle at my voice the way you hadn't at Zainal's. You smile cheerily at him.

"Thanks for everything," you say, and he grins back, utterly charmed. He upgraded us to a better room when you checked us in, a nice view, free snacks we hadn't asked for. If I hadn't been around, he'd probably have asked you how many days you were staying for, if you'd wanted to see more of Austin, if you had someone to show you around.

 

#3. Do you think jealousy is only a problem for you? You're loud and sulky, but I'm secretive about it. I quietly leave teeth marks where nobody else can see. I buy you a plush wombat and watch you coo over it with a fierce sort of triumph. Only I can make you smile like that. _I'm - I get jealous,_ you tell me apologetically, opening up your door after a day of silence and curling up small into my arms, but little do you know.

 

It is like this: I lay my palm over the fingers you have curled loosely over the handle of our suitcase. You turn towards me questioningly. "Let's wait for the taxi outside," I say, even though we're early, and you nod and walk towards the doors, me following close behind. You hold the door open for me, and I knock my shoulder against yours in thanks, and am tempted to look back one last time.

Unnecessary pettiness, really.

The taxi's already waiting. We push the bags in the back, greet the driver who grunts in reply. Obviously not a morning person. You mouth "Same," at me.

It's not quite light yet. Under the cover of barely-dawn, your head lolls back against the headrest, and you yawn. Under the cover of barely-dawn, I watch as you snatch yourself a nap. Watch the dark shadows under your eyes (I'll force you into more rest when we reach), watch the twitch of your fingers, once, twice (restless sleep). I catch the driver watching me watching you; he looks away and says nothing about it, but I decide to study my own feet instead. My body is tilted to the front, but my shoes are angled towards you.

 

#4. I have never said this to you, but if we could, I would. Do you think I would not want to tell the world the wonder of this boy being mine? But we both know this is the easier, wiser, better way. But if we could. I would.

 

Buildings flash by. Cars trundle past. 500 metres to Austin-Bergstrom International Airport. I poke at your side, pull at a tuft of hair. "Dan," I say. "Dan, we're here."

You blink awake, stare bemusedly outside. "No we aren't," you argue.

"In about twenty seconds," the driver informs us.

"Twenty seconds _more sleep,"_ you tell me. But in Vegas you will be wide-awake, jittery, excited about the spread-open city. I'll force you into more rest when we reach.

Day has dawned on us by the time we get out of the car and tip the driver, who tips his hat at us in turn and speeds off. You look at me. "Coffee?" you ask.

"Coffee," I say. You know me as well as anyone ever will.

 

Twenty minutes later, I'm feeling much more at peace with the morning. I swallow the last dregs of my styrofoam cup, pinch a bit of your hash brown. A fan comes up to us as we're about to check in, wishes you happy birthday, enthusiastic about it. You thank her, polite and sincere and self deprecating. I know you were hoping for the off chance she wouldn't ask for a picture, because I know the glance at the reflective metal plane of a counter means _I look a mess._

You don't. I might be a bit biased, but.

 

#5. I have told you this, of course, but I've been meaning to tell you more.

 

What you do look, though, is very tired, so when she leaves I check us in, quickly, and usher you into the waiting lounge, where there are less people milling about. You pull out your phone, thumb idly through it; "Phil," you say, suddenly, voice different, and you show me the screen.

Oh.

 

On the plane, you're yawning even as we're buckling in our seatbelts. The flight is two hours long, which I fully intend to optimize as a source of rest for you, but knowing you, you'll sleep for fifteen minutes, wake up at some turbulence and complain about it to me for ten, then settle in for an inflight movie the rest of the way.

You don't disappoint. Your mouth is open and you're breathing even and deep, both good signs, but exactly eighteen minutes in, while I'm not very absorbed in an old 2 Broke Girls episode, the stewardess leans forward and asks pleasantly, "Coffee? Tea? Any beverage?"

I wince. You startle awake, a little gasp. I sigh. The stewardess looks pleasantly bemused.

"Are we nearly there?" you ask.

"You've barely been in the air fifteen minutes," I tell you. "Would you like a drink, since I know you aren't going back to sleep?"

You decide on an orange juice.

 

We're playing a version of Scrabble on my screen. Your head is dangerously close to my shoulder, but this is a morning flight, sunlight streaming in through the plane windows, and you wouldn't let it rest.

"I'm beating you," you say.

"I thought we were playing as a team," I respond.

You giggle. We give up. We flip idly through our movie choices, again and again.

"She was so young," you say, suddenly. "It's so fucked up."

I agree. I don't say anything. I don't have to. What more can I say? It is fucked up. You summarized it, accurate and concise, in four words. I am terribly, suddenly grateful for your presence, for the warm almost-there drop of your head on my shoulder, for you safe and well next to me. The world is an awful place. I offer up a silent prayer, sorrow and gratitude, to any deity that exists.

 

I buzz my phone on in Vegas and check it while we're walking through a souvenir shop. "Birthday tweet," I say.

You peer at me from behind a stuffed crocodile. "Huh?"

"Put this on," I order, thrusting the hat at you.

You make a face. "This is a fashion travesty. They'll bully me to death."

"They can't bully you more than they already do," I say cheerfully. "Strike a pose."

You put your hands on your hips, make a mockery of biting your lip. #HappyBirthdayDan, I tell twitter, and let them take from that what they will.

 

#6. You probably think you have more pictures of me in your phone. You don't.

 

The art district is sunnily warm and loudly colourful. A bead of sweat trails slowly down your cheek as you point out a lion in sunglasses painted on the back of a van, a brightly magenta flamingo on wheels as we turn the corner. "Pretty," you say, watching a surrealist one, all misshapen ears and noses.

I watch your hair curl stubbornly in the humidity. I watch the way you dimple at the graffiti of a gang of dogs in top hats and crowns. I turn to see a woman smiling into the distance as her trumpet plays out curling, vined notes of hearts and flowers, and I agree.

 

#7. You think I tag along to unnecessary Kanye shows and absorb incomprehensible Formula One because I'm a good boyfriend. I mean, I am, but it's less of a chore than my token protests might indicate. Watching you enthuse over Kanye's overpriced clothes and gasp over real-life Mario Kart, brow furrowed in concentration, fingers gripping absently at my shirt, is a reward in itself.

 

We get back from the Mob Museum at six, a place fascinatingly creepy enough for the both of us. "Phil, look," you said, pointing at actual crime scene photographs. "How gory. Is there a reason you took me here on my birthday? Are you trying to tell me something?"

"You figured it out," I said sadly. "I'm that serial killer AU you showed me. One day there'll be a London museum dedicated to me."

I reveled in that smile, the one that means _you're so weird._ I folded it away, a gift. It's supposed to be _your_ birthday.

Now, you ask doubtfully: "Is this the end of our Vegas sightseeing?"

"I feel like it shouldn't be," I say. "There's still tomorrow. There's still tonight. What do you wanna do tonight, birthday boy?"

"We could get married," you suggest. "Unless there's some other way you'd rather spend the evening."

We won't.

We'll have slow, intense, amazing sex, and I'll lick you open from inside, and I'll push into you raw and heavy and deep, just the way you like it. You'll whisper my name, fervent, and I'll kiss you, messy, and afterwards I'll clean you up because you'll refuse to move, and it's your birthday, anyway, and I spoil you just as much as you do me. We'll order room service. You'll open two of your presents, and take five hundred pictures of each that the internet will never see. We'll watch a lovely Brazilian movie about a blind boy who falls in love with the new kid in class. We'll brush our teeth and fall asleep too-early, and in the morning, June twelfth, not-your-birthday, you'll groan, eyes still closed, and say, "What time did we - we're getting _old."_

"You needed the rest," I'll say. I will be glad we slept the night through if it means seeing the shadows under your eyes fade, just a little.

I'll wonder if you felt me watching you, limned by the light framed by the curtains we forgot to draw closed last night. You were awake when I thought you were asleep; I will be sure you felt my gaze on you. Perhaps there are some things you've been meaning to tell me, as well.

But now, right now, you are twenty-five. I have known you and adored you for seven years. I intend to love you for seventy more. Right now, you say, "We could get married," and your tone is light but you're looking at the floor numbers on the elevator wall, and I know you enough to curl a hand around the back of your neck and kiss you deep and wordless when you tell me: "Unless there's some other way you'd rather spend the evening."

Because here it is. Tonight, we won't, but:

#8. There isn't.

**Author's Note:**

> idk how i feeeeeeeel about this but i wanted to practise first-person and also happy birthday daniel


End file.
